“She’s a very nice, liberal, feminist Christian named Ellie from New Jersey. They met at Bible camp two summers ago.”
“Do they make liberal feminist Christians?”
Gracie rolled her eyes. “They make all kinds.”
I understood why Shelby would need to use Gracie as an alibi. The father of a good old Southern boy would lose his mind if his son dated someone from New Jersey, let alone a liberal feminist from New Jersey.
“If you’re just a cover, why is he so protective? Protective to the point of being an ass”—I quickly corrected myself—“mean to anyone who looks at you?”
“He feels brotherly toward me, and my dad takes advantage.” She paused, watching a volunteer bedazzle the gift box that held the myrrh for baby Jesus. “What’s Shelby ever done to you, anyway? I know he’s a football player, but he’s not a stereotype. He’s not cornering you in the bathroom and giving you wedgies, is he?”
I shook my head.
“Does he stuff you in lockers? Duct tape you to flagpoles? Put Bengay in your jock … er … yeah. That kind of thing?”
I grinned. “You’re cute when you blush.”
“Don’t change the subject.” She was forcing herself to keep her eyes on mine. “Why don’t you like Shelby?”
The conversation had come this far, might as well see it through to the end. “The fact that he had you seemed like reason enough.”
“Oh.”
I stared at her foam belly. Unbelievably, it was the least embarrassing thing in the room. “I’m guessing if I asked you out, your father wouldn’t exactly be okay with that. I’m not a liberal feminist from New Jersey, but I can’t rate much higher.”
“Have you forgotten that Dad went to court for you?”
Look at the womb. Concentrate on the womb. “I haven’t forgotten. But there’s a big difference between bailing someone out of trouble and then letting your daughter date the troublemaker.”
“Give him some credit. He’s not like Shelby’s dad. I mean, I’m sure Dad and I would have a serious talk beforehand, but I’m smart enough to know right from wrong. Dad knows that, and he trusts me. As far as you go, he believes in what he does, and in second chances. He loves people. I’d go so far as to say he loves you.”
Loved me? “Why? I don’t follow the rules. Aren’t religious people into rules?”
“Rules make people feel safe. But they can turn into judgments. Condemnation is easy, Vaughn. The harder choice is love, and it’s one my dad makes every day.”
“He still wouldn’t let you spend time with someone like me,” I argued, mostly because I wanted her to convince me.
“You act like what I want doesn’t matter.” She didn’t sound pouty, she sounded strong. Certain.
My adrenaline was pulsing now. “Would you?” I stopped. Considered. Continued. “Ever want someone like me?”
Gracie leaned in. She smelled like … wood smoke. And fabric softener. “If you pulled fewer pranks and paid more attention, you’d know the answer to that.”
If she meant what I hoped she did, I’d never pull a prank again.
Probably.
The backstage door opened and closed with a bang. A cold wind rushed through the curtains, catching the pages of the director’s playbook. It held the prompts for every scene, the diagrams for all the stage markings, and possibly the location of the Holy Grail. We sprang to our feet to chase them down.
Gracie shivered, pulling the bathrobe tighter as she caught another flying page. “We’ll never find them all.”
“Sure we will. Then it’ll be as easy as putting them back in order.”
“I don’t think so.” She showed me the papers she’d grabbed. “No numbers. Mrs. Armstrong is going to freak out when she has to reorder them. It’ll disrupt her precious schedule.”
Mrs. Armstrong was proud of her director gig, and she made that clear with the laminated ID badge she wore around her neck. “Why wouldn’t she number her playbook?”
Gracie laughed. “Job security. If no one else knows exactly how the scenes are supposed to go, or where everyone is supposed to stand, or where the tape is placed on the stage, she’s necessary.”
I was on my knees, checking under the table of fabric. “Why would you need job security for a volunteer position?”
“To place yourself on the highest possible rung of the social ladder.”
“Church people are weird.” The moment I said it, I felt like a jerk. “Sorry. I have this blurt circuit that can’t be tamed. You might have noticed. Can we go back to when I wasn’t insulting?”
“That far?” she asked.
“How far?” I stood.
“Third grade.”
“What happened in third grade?” I pushed a box of halos aside to retrieve another wayward page.
“You broke all the pencils in your pencil box, and then told the teacher I did it. I had to write ‘Abraham Lincoln is on the penny’ five hundred times.”
I laughed. “I’m sorry.”
Gracie’s eyes sparkled. “So was I.”
The door opened again, and playbook sheets flew back into the air. Gracie ran to the right, lurching between the Dixie flag and a pile of scrolls. I ran to the left, onto the stage, dodging between hoop skirts and the trough that served as the manger. A horse—Confederate cap nestled between his ears—stood in the middle of the arena. He was flanked by General Robert E. Lee, who was in full Confederate regalia, down to his Smith & Wesson. There were five soldiers behind him, and they were in deep conversation with General Grant.
Pastor Robinson joined them with a smile. It melted like Frosty in the hothouse.
“Uh-oh,” I said.
“Uh-oh, what?” Gracie peeked around me, putting her hand on the small of my back. I focused on standing up straight and wondered where putting my arm around her would fall on the awkward scale.
“Why are they here?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” I leaned forward, trying to catch the tone of their conversation.